Curse of the Wolf King - Tessonja Odette Page 0,57
entry to the manor. Both fae appear to have been gifted new clothes. Neither are outfitted as elegantly as the king, but their linen shirts are clean and their trousers well-fitting. They give me curt nods as I pass, but keep their gazes fixed ahead.
That’s when I see Father pacing alongside the rows of wagons in the drive, his coach-and-four at the very end. His face is beet red, and upon seeing me, he halts his pacing, eyes bulging with rage. “What is the meaning of this, Gemma?”
I stop several feet before him and fold my hands at my waist. Lifting my chin, I wear not the mask of the dutiful daughter, but the one I don for the townspeople. Confident. Cold. Haughty. “If you got my letter, then surely you know exactly what the meaning of this is.”
He bares his teeth for a moment, fingers curling into fists. “You have no right to send me a letter informing me you’ve taken a position of employment. I forbade you from seeking work the first time you brought it up.”
“I’m eighteen,” I say. “You cannot forbid me from taking a job.”
“I can so long as you live beneath my roof.”
“That’s just it, Father. I no longer live beneath your roof, for my new position provides room, board, and ample salary. Your threats to disown, disinherit, and displace me will now fall on deaf ears, should you choose to repeat them.”
“Was one scandal not enough?” he growls.
I narrow my eyes. “I fail to see how me gaining employment is worthy of the term scandal.”
“It is when your employer is a stranger whom you take room and board from. Who is he?”
“How do you know my employer is a he?”
“Are you his mistress, hiding out at his country estate? Is that what this is? Another case of the Viscount of Brekshire?”
The Viscount of Brekshire. The name crushes my chest, making my lungs feel too small, sending my head spinning. My mask falters.
“When will you learn, Gemma? You will ruin yourself once and for all if you keep throwing yourself at the feet of taken men.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, seeking the sting of pain. Anything to free myself from the whirl of sound that beats at my mind, invades my senses.
Seductress.
Harlot.
He didn’t belong to you.
Father takes a step closer, his voice a barbed whisper. “Get in the coach.”
I close my eyes and breathe the memories away. When I open them, I form a word with all the strength and calm I can manage. Even so, it comes out with a tremor. “No.”
He crosses the remaining distance between us, bringing his face inches from mine. Expression twisted with rage, he shouts, “Get in the coach!”
I clench my jaw. “No!”
At the same moment, Father lurches back, and in his place stands a towering Elliot, his hand locked on my father’s shoulder. The king’s voice comes out low, dangerous. “Are you harassing my steward?”
Father shrugs roughly from Elliot’s grip, face crimson as he adjusts his jacket. His eyes fall on the king’s pointed ears, and his lips pull into a sneer. “Who do you think you are to lay your hands on me, you filthy fae?”
Elliot takes a slow, swaggering step, shoulders rigid as he stares down at my father. “I’m the filthy fae who pays your salary, human.”
Father’s chest heaves as he stands his ground beneath the king’s seething stare. Then, in a rush, the redness melts from his cheeks, eyes widening. “Who are you?”
Elliot’s words come from between his teeth. “I will forgive you this once for not knowing the face of your king, for I am not here for recognition. In fact, if I hear word has gotten out that I am here at all, I’ll know exactly who to punish. As king, I have a right to live where I please, seek discretion when I please, and employ whom I please, and that includes your daughter. Any questions?”
Father seems to shrink as he takes a step away. His voice comes out tremulous. “Your Majesty—”
“So long as my presence remains outside public knowledge, you will refer to me as Mr. Rochester.”
“Mr. Rochester,” he says in a rush, “might I ask what your intentions are with my daughter?”
“What the freezing fuck do you think?” Elliot puts his hands on his hips. “To pay her for her duties as my house steward. If you’re suggesting—”
Father lifts his hands and retreats a few steps back. “No, Your Ma—Mr. Rochester. No. I meant nothing like